


Little Things are Infinitely the Most Important

by ActuallyGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bi-Romantic John Watson, Bisexual John Watson, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Domestic Fluff, Drunk John, First Kiss, Fluff, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Heterosexual John, John Kinda don't know what he is, John-centric, M/M, Sexual Content, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Slow Burn, Virgin Sherlock, it's complicated - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-14 09:23:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9173428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActuallyGirl/pseuds/ActuallyGirl
Summary: “John couldn’t pinpoint exactly when his and Sherlock's relationship turned physical. Suddenly the casual touches were just there, like a habit none of them realized they had picked up. It was strange, yet so familiar and, John had to admit, very, very nice. ”Sherlock is not interested in sex, and John would never label himself even bi-curious, yet they want to be together and make it work. Slow-burn relationship fic about navigating unfamiliar sexual desires in a and relationship where one part does not feel them.(Also relationship-advice from Greg! Yay!  And shopping at Tesco! Yay?) Rated Mature for later chapters, mostly fluff up until then (disclaimer on chapter).





	1. The Complicated Case of The Relationship-Status

John couldn’t pinpoint exactly when his and Sherlock's relationship had turned physical. Suddenly the casual touches were just there, like a habit none of them had realized they had picked up. It wasn’t sexual, heck as far as John could remember he and Sherlock never even exchanged a hug in all their years together, but it was definitely not platonic. Their flat was spacious enough for them to exist without contact, yet they both sought it out seemingly without intention. John would place a hand on the small of Sherlock's back when they passed each other in the kitchen. The detective in turn would tuck his feet under John's thighs when they sat reading on the couch. At some point they’d started sitting side by side at the breakfast table, leaning into each other as Sherlock would solve crimes by the newspaper headlines alone.

Without even noticing John had grown accustomed to feeling Sherlock's hands on him. The world's only consulting detective had never held other people's personal space in high regard, but this was different. This was intimate. As soon as he started to pay attention to them Sherlock's hands seemed to be everywhere. The brush of his  fingers over John's as he handed him something. Sherlock's palm on his shoulder as he leaned in to read whatever John was reading.

It spread from the apartment to the outer world as well. Sherlock would run a hand along John's arm before they entered a cab. John would stand closer than needed to Sherlock when investigating crime scenes. They would lean in, whisper things to each other, and laugh at internal jokes. It was strange, yet so familiar and, John had to admit, very, very nice.

A rainy London day they got trapped in a downpour, escaping it last minute by ducking in under the awning of a closed sandwich shop. Sherlock used his superior length to position himself in a way that shielded John from the worst of the wind that hurled the rain sideways down the street.

“We look like king penguins.” John joked as they stood huddled close together with their hands shoved deep in their pockets for warmth “Us against the arctic cold, also known as bloody London weather.”

“All we need is some eggs to balance on our feet.” Sherlock filled in and they both chuckled.  

A passing group of teenage girls under brightly colored umbrellas giggled as they passed them. “You guys look really cute together!” one of them called back. Instead of the usual denial John instinctively and without thinking answered “Cheers!” and Sherlock smiled.

A couple of days later John sat in his mostly-unused chair at the clinic and tried the words out loud for the first time.

“Hell.” he leaned back, staring at the sealing “I’m in relationship with Sherlock bloody Holmes.”

* * *

Later that week John sat down in front of the television to listen to Sherlock loudly nitpick his way though a crime drama. Secretly John knew this was Sherlock's way of spending quality time with him by doing the things he thought John enjoyed, such as talk over an entire episode of Broadchurch.

“Oh, come on. That’s not a real clue, there was nothing pointing to the paint prior to its convenience in the plot!”

“To me it looks an awful lot like what you do, making random connections like _that._ ” John snapped his fingers for emphasis.

“Except mine are based in reasoning beyond your understanding, not lazy writing by some BBC hotshot.”  Sherlock leaned heavily into the couch. The movement shifted his body closer to John's and suddenly their thighs was pressed together. It wasn’t unusual for them to be this close, in fact this was rather modest considering Sherlock would often wrap his long legs over John's lap if he decided to lay down, but today something was different. The heat from the other man's body felt scotching, even though the layer of jeans and Sherlocks pyjama bottoms. John swallowed and concentrated on the tv, trying to push the intense sensation of their bodies touching out of his mind. He was so set on his mission to stare down the screen it took him a while to notice that Sherlock had stopped talking. When he turned his head he saw the detective study him with the same intense blue stare he would award an intriguing case folder. In the cold light of the screen Sherlock's eyes almost shown beneath the unruly mess of dark curls. Damn, he was… “ _don’t think it_ ” John told himself.

“What?” he said out loud.

“My question exactly” Sherlock's piercing gaze never left his face. 

“Nothing, watching the show.”

“Don’t lie, John. You’re terrible at it.”

“I am not!”

“You’re dreadful. Mrs Hudson is less transparent.”

“I’m not… why would I lie about…?”

“Stop.” John knew there was no arguing with that tone of voice “Tell me.” Sherlock sat up straighter, leaning a bit closer to the doctor in the process.

“Tell you what?”

“Again, exactly.”  Did John imagine it or was there a slight look of concern on Sherlock's face? “Tell me what’s wrong”

“Nothings wrong.”

“John.”

The doctor sighed and switched the television off,  blanketing the apartment in relative darkness as the heavy curtains kept the soggy daylight at bay. He sat back and rubbed his face, clearing his voice twice before speaking. “I wasn’t lying, nothing’s wrong. In fact, I think I might be all right for the first time in… gods, I don’t know. Forever? But… There’s something I need to ask you.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, he simply waited for John to continue. In the brief silence John looked up at Sherlock, towering over him when he sat up straight, his attention like a laser focused on John, who tried his best to be devoured by the run-down couch. Sherlock was so god damn impressive. How hadn’t he noticed before how beautiful he looked? “Okay, so here’s my question… and don’t be weird about it.” he took a deep breath “Are we… a couple?”

“Well, there is two of us, so mathematically speaking…”

“Don’t be smart, you know what I mean.”

“I do.” Sherlock's gaze was still steady, but his hands fidgeted in his lap “But out of the two of us I don’t believe I’m the one with the answer to that question.”  

“Answer it anyway. To the best of your ability.”

“John…”

“Please.”

Sherlock briefly looked away into the darkness, contemplating his reply. “Yes, John. To me, at least, we are.” he cleared his throat a little “I didn’t know about you though. What you thought.”

“I think we’ve been in a relationship for a while and I’ve just been too dumb to notice.”

“Perhaps your definition of a relationship differs from what we have, and that made you unable to see the rather obvious signs so many others before you have picked up on?”

“Oh, pray tell, what are those again?”

Sherlock gestured into the artificial dusk of the apartment, silently covering their whole domestic life with a sweep of his arm.  

“Lot’s of friends live together, Sherlock.”

The detective waved a dismissive hand at the general public “Yes, but they’re ordinary.”

John laughed softly, not wanting to argue Sherlock's point as it would inevitably turn into some sort of insult on his behalf. They sat awhile, in the dark, as John struggled to figure out where to go from here.

“You want to talk more.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, of course I do. This is kind of a big deal, don’t you think?”

“No.” sensing Johns disappointment Sherlock added “Well, I assume it matters on what kind of scale you use for considering things as a...” his voice made quotation marks around the words “big deal.”

John rubbed his eyes “God, you’re not making this easy”

“Things seldom are with me.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“Speaking of witch, could we continue this conversation in the kitchen?”

“I would prefer a bar.”

“Yes, well I have this mold that…”

“Sherlock, right now I don’t care what gross experiment you’re doing in the room where we cook our food, just go about it.”

“Very well then.” Sherlock patted John's leg as he rose and moved to turn on the harsh kitchen light. John sank back into the sofa, trying to wrap his head around what had just happened. A part of him felt almost giddy with relief, as if he’d had this huge secret from himself that he was finally rid off. He listened to Sherlock rummage around the kitchen with a smile that quickly faded as he heard the familiar clanking of a metal lid.

“Not the kettle Sherlock!” he yelled “Never the kettle for anything but tea! We agreed!”

* * *

A while later John was puttering about the kitchen, obviously searching for a way back into the conversation. From his rather erratic clean up-sprees and folding of old newspapers he didn’t seem to have any luck with it. Sherlock knew where John wanted the conversation to go and with an internal sigh he resigned himself to help the man he’d just admitted to be is… what? Boyfriend?

“I’m not asexual.” Sherlock commented seemingly out of the blue. “Not in the way you think of the term, at least.”

“Stop looking at my browser history.”

“Simply clear it if you want to keep it secret.” Sherlock watched him intently as John moved around the kitchen making tea for them both even though the detective didn’t ask for any.

“Okay.” John continued several minutes later as he pushed a steaming cup towards Sherlock and sat down opposite the other man and his mess of vials and papers “What are you?”

“Uninterested.”

“That would make you asexual.”

“Are you attempting to educate me on the matter?”

“No. I mean, it’s not my place to say what you are. But not being interested in sex or feeling sexual attraction is what asexuality is, isn’t it?”

“You’re citing Wikipedia, so you should know there’s many aspects and nuances to the term.” Sherlock dragged out his answer “I could do… it. I almost have. Before. As an experiment.”

“Almost?”

“I got bored”

“So you never…?”

“No”

“Not ever?”

“That’s what the ‘no’ would imply, John.”  

“So how do you know…” John cut himself off “Sorry, I almost asked how you knew if you never…” he made a very non-descriptive hand gesture “you know. But that’s rather ignorant, isn’t it.”

“Quite.” Sherlock sipped his tea while he chose his words “I probably could try. With you. If you would want that. If that’s what it would take to have you… stay. With me.”

“I don’t want that.” It was only because of their long time together that John noticed the quick flash of pain in Sherlock's eyes before they went cold. “No no, you misunderstood.” John hurried “I don’t want to have sex with you. I’ve thought about it, I’ve even tried to watch some…”

“I know. You should really learn to use private surfing.”

“Yes, well. I tried that, and it doesn’t really do anything for me. And I tried thinking about you in that way and it doesn’t… work. But I want to stay with you. Like this.” he gestured towards their apartment “Maybe even more than this. But I don’t want… I mean, you’re handsome. I can see that and sometimes I look at you and I like the aesthetics of you. I like the way you look in a suit, or when you’re so deep in thought you forget the world around you. But I don’t want to have sex with you. I think.”

“John. You’re rambling.” Sherlock was visibly relieved though and there was a faint hint of a smile on his lips.

“So, what now?”

“We could kiss.” Sherlock suggested “I don’t mind kissing. In fact it’s something I’ve been wanting to do for a while.”

“I’d like that. But maybe we should work our way up to that, yeah?” He looked around their messy kitchen, cruelly illuminated by the fluorescent light Sherlock had probably stolen from a lab at some point “This is all new to me, and the setting isn’t the most romantic.”

“If that’s what you want.” Sherlock shrugged. He reached out and almost tentatively closed his hand around John's. The doctor responded in turn and rubbed his thumb over Sherlock's knuckles.

“I very much care for you John” Sherlock didn’t look at him as he said it, his startling blue eyes fixed on a point right behind the doctor’s shoulder “Perhaps more than I’ve ever thought myself capable of care for another person.”

“I very much care for you too, Sherlock” John smiled and his voice was perhaps a bit more emotional than he’d intended.


	2. Sleeping Together in the Literal Sense

About three cases after they had the talk and more or less surrendered to a domestic relationship, Sherlock insisted that they sleep together.

“I thought we went over this already.” John sipped his tea in an effort to appear casual, which was completely wasted as Sherlock noticed the stiffness in his stance without even having to look.

“You misunderstand. I’m not referring to the sexual act, but rather the literal meaning.” Sherlock looked up from the coroner's report he was shuffling through “I want you to stay in my room tonight.”

“Why?”

“Is it not what most people do, excluding those with respiratory conditions or sensitive sleeping habits?”

“Yes.” John took another sip of tea “But we’re not most people, Sherlock”

“Well, I’m not.” The detective waved a dismissive hand in John general direction “You, on the other hand… well, I guess you’re not as mundane as you appear at first impression.”

“Such things you say.  I think my heart just skipped a beat.”

“You decline, then?”

“No.” John smiled and tentatively ran a hand along Sherlock's exposed wrist “Let’s do it. Why not?”

The detective brushed his long fingers against the rough skin on the doctor's knuckles as a reply.

* * *

As the world's greatest (and only) consulting detective should have been able to deduce from the facts at his disposal, trying to sleep in the same bed as someone else turned out to be a horrible idea. Sherlock wasn’t used to having people next to him as he slept, at least not when sober, and the unfamiliar shape lightly snoring at his side set him on edge. As they lay next to each other the detective was suddenly very aware of his length, and how his body seemed to be consisting of a surprising amount of sharp angles. For the life of him he couldn’t remember what he usually did with his knees.

John, on the other hand, seemed almost mockingly at peace. Splayed out on his back with one arm casually slung over his head he slept like a baby. Sherlock knew nights like these where rare for the ex-soldier and was therefore even more aware of his own potentially disturbing presence. The detective resigned to studying John's face in the weak light sneaking its way into the room from the street below. He’d aged since they first met. Sherlock supposed he had too, but he rarely paid as much attention to his own face as he did John's. He knew every twitch of the doctors features, every way a look could be delivered, every disapproving or approving quirk of his mouth. He’d never seen him like this though, at least not up close. In sleep, Johns features softened, the lines on his face that marked both his age and experiences were smoothed by the touch of night.

Maybe this had been a mistake. A selfish mistake, wanting to keep John as his own, even when he wouldn’t be able to provide him with what he’d need from a relationship. Sherlock was painfully aware of the pajama bottoms he’d put on. Normally he slept in the nude, but he couldn’t do that with John in the same bed. He was unsure as to why. John had seen him naked on multiple occasions, much to the doctors annoyance as it usually meant Sherlock was running around getting water all over the apartment, in a  hurry to solve a case after a shower-related revelation.

“Can’t sleep?” John murmured, and it actually startled Sherlock.

“I woke you?”

“Mmm.”

“I didn’t even say anything, or move.”

“Mmm. You stared though.”

“I was trying to give my mind something to do.” Sherlock heard that he sounded irritated, even though he hadn’t intended to “I’m not used to other people. In here.”

John popped himself up on one elbow “Want me to leave?”

Sherlock took a moment before he answered “No. Stay.”

“Are you…” John rolled back onto his back, and fixed his eyes on the ceiling “ I don’t want to say scared of me, but I can’t think of a better word.”   

“What makes you say that?”

“You’re wearing bottoms.”

“Out of courtesy.”

“When have you ever been courteous?”

“Sometimes I apply myself.”

“Clearly” John gave Sherlock a quick smile “You don’t have to do this if it makes you uncomfortable, you know.”

“It was my idea.”

“I know, But you’re allowed to change your mind about it whenever you like.”  

“I don’t want to change my mind, John.”

“I don’t want you to either.” John shifted and uncurled the arm he’d kept under his neck, stretching it out over the pillows “Come here. And take those things of if you like, you hate them. We’ve got separate blankets anyway.”

Sherlock kicked his legs free of the horrible pajama bottoms and pulled his blankets tighter around him as he accepted John's offer.

“What am I supposed to…”

“Just lay down, you idiot.” John smiled.

Sherlock rested his head on John’s arm, and the doctor wrapped it around him and pulled him close. It felt warm, and secure, and something more he couldn’t quite place. Adjusting himself to fit against Johns frame Sherlock ended up with his head on John’s chest, and John ended up with a face-full of black curls. Neither of them minded.

“Now try to sleep.”

“We should trade places.”

“No. Sleep.”

“I’m taller than you. My feet are sticking out.”

“You should have thought of that somewhere around a teen growth spurt.” John kissed the top of Sherlock's head “Just for a bit, OK?”

“Fine”

Home. That was the other thing John's arms felt like. They felt like home.


	3. First Date

Mrs. Hudson noticed the change in their relationship straight away, and made a terrible show of pretending she hadn’t. She would move around the apartment, giggling at one of John's shirts draped over Sherlock's chair and other seemingly random objects, while commenting on how dusty John’s room suddenly was. “You used to keep it so tidy. But maybe you don’t feel the need to clean it anymore.” she snickered and drove a gentle elbow into John's midriff.  

“Has our housekeeper gone mad?” Sherlock asked flatley when Mrs. Hudson closed the door behind her after an unusually high-pitched fit of giggling at Johns coffee cup in the detective's hands and cooing over finding John's gun in one of the drawers in the master bedroom.

“You know she’s not our housekeeper.”

“Then remind me why we let her systematically go through our things?”

John  shrugged. “I think all three of us just got used to it.”

“Well, at least she does the laundry.”

“ _I_ do the laundry, Sherlock.”

“Shopping, then?”

“Also me.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow, trying to think of more domestic chores. “Cooking?”

“That would be the collective effort of about nine different takeout-places located within walking distance.”

“Ah.” Sherlock returned to scrolling frantically on his phone, absorbing everything he could find about short- and long term road network maintenance in London. He was engrossed in the details of the proposal to install 70 meters of 1 way poly duct in the sidewalk from Webbers Street to Blackfriars road and it took John three tries to get his attention.

“Sherlock!”

“Yes?”

“‘Yes’ you want to come to dinner with me or ‘yes, you weren't listening’?”

“The latter.” Sherlock admitted, pocketing his phone as John sat down next to him on the couch “Don’t we usually have dinner together?”

“When you decide to eat, yeah. But i thought maybe out there.” John nodded towards the outside world, located somewhere beyond the high windows.

“Ah.” Sherlock pondered it a moment. “Why?”

“Because I’m getting a bit tired of reheated pad thai, and we don’t have a case right now, which means you occasionally consume food without me having to force it into you.”

“When do you…”

“I slip protein powder into your tea. It’s a wonder you haven’t noticed.”

“I did, I just assumed you made terrible tea.”

“Anyway, I thought it might be nice.” John laughed a little, and slapped the palms of his hands against his thighs before getting up. “Never mind. I’ll pick something up.”

“No, wait.” Sherlock gently grabbed his wrist, holding him in place “You meant like a date?”

“Yes, Sherlock. Not even like a date, I meant _a_ date.”

“I do believe I’m not very good with dates.”

“Don’t worry, I’m great at them.” John smiled. “But if you don’t want to I’m fine staying in.”

“You’re not.” Sherlock said softly, reading the disappointment John tried to hide underneath his causal cheer.

“Right, maybe not.” John sighed heavily as he sank back into the couch, rubbing his hands over his face and speaking through his fingers. “I need to get out for a bit, and I don’t want to push you but I would like it if you came with me.” His hands travelled restlessly from his face to his hair, combing through it as he continued. “This is all new to me, you know, this kind of relationship. And, I don’t know, I kind of just want to add something familiar to it, something that makes it feel… I don’t know.”

“Real.” Sherlock finished for him.

“Real outside the apartment, and outside crime scenes.” John elaborated, finding Sherlock’s hand among the cushions “Here it feels very real.”

“You liked that Mrs. Hudson noticed.” Sherlock observed and John laughed.

“I did. There’ll be no living with her now, but I did like that. So, how about it?” he rubbed his thumb over the detectives long fingers “Want to go on a date with me?”

Sherlock tried to remember if anyone had ever asked him that before. “Yes, very much.”

“Great! I know this little Greek place, it usually has tables. Leave in 30?”

“What are you doing for 30 minutes?”

“Shaving. Maybe changing my shirt.”

“Wear the blue one.” Sherlock called after him as he closed the door to the bathroom. “It brings out your eyes.”

John wasn’t sure if he was joking or not, but he put on the blue shirt anyway.

* * *

When they arrived at the restaurant, the waiter at the door greeted John by his first name. The young man cast a curious glance at Sherlock as he showed them to a table for two by the window. After he had brought them water he left them alone to look at the menu. The restaurant was sparsely lit by single candles on small tables, creating islands of warm light in a sea of garlic-smelling dusk.

All dinner guests were couples, only the waiters drifted alone between the tables. They stood out as the only same-sex couple and John could feel the looks at the back of his head. He picked up the menu simply to have something to fiddle with while feigning indifference. He looked at Sherlock, who studied the people around them with casual disinterest. The warm light of the restaurant created soft shadows that seemed to attach themselves to Sherlock's cheekbones, making his angled features even more distinct than usual. His dark hair was expertly smoothed back from his face, his curls tamed just enough to make it look effortless. He had changed into an immaculate suit that was probably too posh for the establishment. Two years ago John wouldn't have known the difference between a nice black suit and a very nice black suit, but after living with Sherlock he had learned to distinguish the subtle differences in cuts and fit. The suit Sherlock was wearing was a very nice one. He cleared his inexplicably dry throat to tell Sherlock as much. “That’s a nice suit.”

“Yes.” Sherlock plucked at the hem of it. “Well, you said you found the aesthetics of me in a suit pleasing, so I thought I should make an effort.”

“Oh.” John went back to staring blindly at the menu, not able to think of a single reply.  

A reason John loved to bring dates to this particular restaurant was that the interior helped mediate awkward silences. Heavy drapes fell from the walls, absorbing sound and creating an ambiance of murmured conversations. Soaring above it all was the softest hint of music. It was so delicate it was hard to notice it was even there, among the muffled sound of people. Sherlock frowned, trying to pinpoint why the violin sounded familiar.

John shot him a look. “If you’ve noticed that everyone here are serial killers I would rather not know.” he said, keeping his voice low “I like this place.”

“Our waiter has a gambling problem that’s left him behind on his rent, but no murderers so far.” Sherlock replied nonchalantly, and pointed to the ceiling. “They’re playing Sibelius' Concerto, with Leonidas Kavakos on first violin.”

John made an effort to listen to the almost inaudible music. “How can you tell?”

“It’s the original recording. From 1991.” Sherlock gestured lightly in the air as he spoke, his fingers following the low melody  “He has a certain softness to his flat notes, a kind of tenderness. It’s very distinctive, if you know what to listen for.”

The waiter circled back to them and took their orders. Sherlock mimicked John's choices of meat and vegetables, and, to John's great surprise, accepted the waiters recommended wine.

“You don’t drink.” he commented as they were once again left in the relative solitude of their table.

Sherlock shrugged. “Not often, no. I also don’t go on dates, and you are not gay.” he cocked his head at John “Yet here we are.”

“Fair enough.” The conversation was once again halted by the arrival of the aforementioned wine.

“I find it hard to believe you don’t at least get asked out on dates.”John continued after having had a sip of the wine, which Sherlock insisted tasted distinctly of rosemary and oak. “I mean, look at you. You turn heads.”

“Perhaps.” Sherlock leaned forward over the table, steepling his fingers “If people have asked I have not bothered remembering.”

“So you’ve never gone out with anyone, not even at school, or uni?”

Sherlock made a dismissive snort. “Especially not at university.”

“Right. Sebastian Wilkes said something about that, that you weren’t…” he searched for a  way to sugar-coat it and came up empty “...Very well-liked.”

Sherlock seemed unconcerned. “It’s not uncommon. Most people don’t like me, John.”

John laughed at the perfect setup. “Well, that would make me not most people.”

They smiled at each other over the table. Sherlock reached for him over the checkered cloth, and John met his hand half way. They sat like that until they had to let go as the food arrived. For a while they talked about old cases, John’s time in the army and music. John discovered that if asked the right questions Sherlock would talk at length about classical music with a passion he otherwise reserved for especially gruesome murders. He found out that Sherlock loved the opera, he even used the word _“loved_ ”. When he in turn found out that John had never been to the opera in his life Sherlock smiled and said “Perhaps I should take you to one for our next date.”

As they left the restaurant, John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist when they walked through the door, not caring who might see them. 

* * *

Because Sherlock was Sherlock, and trouble seemed to always follow him around like an infatuated puppy, it of course turned out that the pawn shop across the street from John's favorite restaurant was the front for a money laundering service. Sherlock noticed it from the display arrangement and a misspelled sign, or something equally unbelievable, as he was picking up the check. Tipsy on red wine they decided to investigate, which of course turned into a break in and a fist fight, which in turn led to them having to call Lestrade.

“Sherlock noticed it from across the street…” John attempted to explain, while being constantly interrupted by Greg.

“From inside the restaurant.”

“Yes. So after we paid, we...”

“After you paid at the restaurant where you bring all your dates, Sherlock Holmes, whom you brought there, noticed something odd about the pawn shop?” John gave Lestrade his best unamused stare, hoping it would get the inspector to at least wipe the baffled expression of his face. Greg held his hands up in surrender. “I’m just thinking you and I need to grab a pint some day, mate.”

“Sure.” the doctor softened “Soon. I promise, okay? Could you just…”  

“I’ll take it from here.” Lestrade nodded towards Sherlock, who was vocally resisting the care offered to him by two paramedics who were just trying to do their job “Get you date home before someone else takes a swing at him.”

John gratefully patted him on the shoulder and went over to free Sherlock by explaining that he was a doctor, and Sherlock hadn’t sustained any fractures as a result of the punch he’d taken to the ribs.  

“Thursday, John!” Lestrade called after him as John followed Sherlock into a cab headed for Baker Street. 

All in all, it had been a pretty good first date.


	4. Talking about sex with Greg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John talks about his and Sherlock's relationship with Greg Lestrade over a couple of pints.

* * *

“So now I’m a soon-to-be 40-year old heterosexual male veteran in a committed relationship with a mid-thirties-something asexual sociopathic male genius. Oh, who also has something of a drug problem.”

“At least you have something for this years Christmas letter.” Greg offered helpfully.

“Should I leave out the part about the drugs?”

“Might be best. I’d hate to have to arrest my drinking buddy's boyfriend.” Lestrade smiled over his half-emptied pint ”So what are you going to do about the whole... you know. Sex stuff. Are you just going to take care of it yourself or…?”

John groaned into his beer. He wasn’t comfortable talking about  this but he’d sought Greg out _specifically to talk_ and the inspector had so far been pretty okay with the whole thing.

“I don’t know yet.” John finally replied “We haven’t figured it out. Sherlock offered, but not because he wants to but because he thinks I do. And I didn’t lie all those times I said I wasn’t gay. I’m not. But I want to be with Sherlock, but I don’t want to sleep with him. It’s complicated.”

“Look, I don’t want to offend, John, but...”

“Oh, this will be good.” John muttered and Greg pretended not to hear him.

“But you’re the kind bloke who… have a tendency to want to sleep with people.”

“A unique snowflake, I.” John quipped, glancing around the sparsely lit dank bar that was his and Greg's favorite drinking spot.

“Maybe not. But have you sworn of sex now?”

“I don’t know. Maybe?”

“Maybe?”

“I want to stay with Sherlock, Greg. I do. I’m willing to make…” he lowered his voice “certain sacrifices.”

“And I salute that!” Some of Greg's beer sloshed onto the table as he raised his glass “God knows I’m tired of watching the two of you dancing around each other for years. YEARS John! And I was always like ‘Just kiss already’ but there you two were like two bloody idiots not doing a thing. So I’m not saying don’t give it a try, because you should. But talk to Sherlock about your needs.”

“Please don’t say _needs_.” John made a face like he bit down on a lemon.

“Why not, out of the two of us, who’s actually had a long-term relationship?”

“Right. How’s the divorce coming along by the way?”

“Splendid! She moved in with that tennis coach. His name is Dennis. DENNIS! And he teaches TENNIS. I couldn’t stop laughing when she told me. But yeah, it’s all settled, hope they’ll be happy and all that.” He downed a large part of his remaining beer and then slammed the glass onto the already severely scratched tabletop. “But this is what I’m talking about John! My marriage fell apart because the last couple of years, we didn’t talk about the things that bothered us. By the end, everything was so bloody fragile that neither of us could. And here we are. So make sure you talk about stuff if it bothers you.” Greg gave him a serious look as he finished his monologue. “If you don’t, you’re not giving the guy a fighting chance to keep you.”

“Cheers, mate.” John smiled, touched by his friends concern “Next round’s on me.”

They sat in silence as the bartender swung by their table with two more pints and John gave him some crumpled bills. As the bartender left Greg looked up at John, who furrowed his brow and looked out the window. “He can’t seriously be named Dennis” he said “It’s too dumb.”

“That’s what I said!” Greg agreed and the evening continued with a mix of trash talk and jokes until the bar finally closed and they were kicked out.

* * *

 When John got home Sherlock had to help him out of his shoes.

“Lestrade has a bad influence on you.” he remarked as he idly tossed one shoe behind the couch where it would take John thirty-three minutes to find it the next morning.

“Oh hush.” John's voice was more slurred than he’d like “At least you don’t have to come dig me out of some drug den in Brixton.”

Sherlock let the comment slide and graciously switched the subject as John went to get himself a large glass of water.  “What did Lestrade have to say?”

“Why?” John's slightly wobbly head snapped to Sherlock “You don’t usually ask.”

“I usually do not care” Sherlocked leaned his hip on the doorframe, regarding the doctor, who was slumping in a kitchen chair “But tonight I have a personal interest, since you’ve been talking about me.”

John didn’t even bother to question or deny it.“We always used to talk about you, you know.”

“Not like the way you talk about me now.”

“Maybe not.” John made an effort to straighten up “We talked a bit about us, yeah. What’s with that look?”

“He told you this...” long fingers moved through the air to indicate the unnamed relationship “was a bad idea.”

Sherlock startled as John barked a loud laugh. “For all your deductions you’re crap with people.” he smiled “Greg was happy. More than happy, actually. Apparently, he’s seen us dance around each other for years - his words, not mine - and it’s been driving him crazy. So, no. He didn’t tell me it was a bad idea. Quite the opposite. What makes you think he tried to talk me out if this?”

“Because there’s something you want to talk to me about, and it’s serious.”

“How… never mind, I’m too tired and drunk to make sense of an explanation anyway.” he gulped down his water and went for seconds “But yeah, there’s something Greg thought I should talk to you about. But not tonight, Sherlock.”

“Is it sex?” Sherlock answered Johns question without him having to ask “If he didn’t try to talk you out of it, it’s fair to assume you talked about sex.”

“Yeah” John leaned back on the sink “But let’s not talk about it now. There’s no rush, really.”

“John, why don’t you want to have sex with me?” The question took John by surprise and he drank some more water to try to clear his mind enough to think of a good answer.

“I just… you don’t really want to.”

“I’ve offered.”

“Yeah, but for my sake.”

“Of course. Is that a bad thing?”

“No, it’s nice of you but… I don’t know Sherlock. I’m not attracted to you like that. Emotionally, sure. I mean, I love you, but…” He cut himself off as his words hung between them in the unlit kitchen. Even though Sherlock was just a sharp silhouette against the warmth of the street lights that shone in through the large living room windows John could feel his eyes on him. “Right. Never said that before, have I?”

“No” There was something strange in Sherlock's voice that John couldn’t identify.

“Well, I do. Love you, that is.”

The stoic outline of Sherlock gave no reply and was suddenly very still. John suddenly wished he could see his face.  

“Well?” John broke the silence that had lingered a little longer than comfortable.

“What?” Again there was that strange note in Sherlock's voice - it stood out like a missed accord in the familiar melody of his voice. What was it?

“You’re supposed to say it back, you idiot.” The words were harsh but John’s  tone was warm.

Sherlock moved faster than John could follow, he hardly had time to put down his glass before Sherlock's arms wrapped around him, pushing their bodies together. John rested his arms on the small of Sherlock's back, leaning his head on to the other man's chest.

“Bloody hell you’re tall.” he mumbled into Sherlock's probably expensive shirt.

“You’re simply short.” Sherlock replied into his hair “And… I...” Sherlock had a hard time finding the proper words. He wasn’t familiar with the emotions, it felt like trying to describe a color without any references.

“Yeah, I figured.” John came to his rescue, as always.

They spent a moment just holding each other in the poorly lit kitchen, enjoying the intimacy.

“You smell really nice” John slurred quietly.  

“You smell like cheap beer and old after shave” 

“Take a case that pays and I’ll upgrade both.”  John moved to untangle them and Sherlock followed suit. “I should probably take a shower before bed.”

“You didn’t answer my question, John.”

“No, I know, but let’s not right now, OK? We haven’t even kissed yet.”

“And judging by the Carling on your breath there’ll be none of it tonight.”

“Yeah. Not to mention the vertigo I’d get if I tried to reach you all the way up there” John smiled as he wobbly made his way to the bathroom.

Sherlock stood for a while in the dark and tried to savor the feeling fluttering about in his stomach, preserving the whole scene for safe keeping in his mind palace. If anyone had ever told him they loved him before, he hadn’t bothered to remember. But he’d remember when John did.


	5. The First Kiss

Their first kiss wasn’t during a perfectly orchestrated moment. It didn’t happen when the chill moonlight blended with the dirty yellow of the street lamps, lending their apartment that eerie glow in which Sherlock liked to compose. They both probably thought it would be a moment like that, silhouetted against the large windows, the lasts notes of some devilishly beautiful melody still lingering between them as they reached for each other.

Instead, it happened when they were crammed together in the tiny space between two weathered brick houses down by a marina covered in the stink of slow-moving water. The only notes they heard was the high-pitch sound that lingered in their skulls, an echo of a gunshot that had gone off too close for comfort, as well as the frantic beatings of each other's hearts. John had lost the gun in the skirmish and Sherlock was bleeding from a cut somewhere underneath the dark collection of curles. They were dirty from running in the mud and chilled to the bone by the thick, merciless London fog. Frantically trying to catch their breaths and simultaneously keep quiet they waited, every muscle on edge in case their pursuers would understand that they’d jumped off the side of the bridge into the sludge below. The orbs of flashlights appeared and disappeared above them, like the glowing eyes of some menacing beast on the prowl. At some point, neither of them knew when, their hands had locked as they stared back at the pillars of light, unable to do anything but hope they passed them by.

When the shouting in Russian seemed to come closer, Sherlock looked down at John, or if it was John who looked up at Sherlock, neither of them could remember, just as neither could remember who moved first. Sherlock bent down and John stretched to meet him, and suddenly their lips were melting together. The kiss was raw, cold, and tasted faintly of iron from the long run. It was short, deep and oddly invigorating. The world didn’t fade away around them, instead it intensified as chemical mixtures of survival instincts and oxytocin flushed into their blood streams. Afterwards, Sherlock was amazed how the sensation of John's hand in his hair had seemed more real than the strain of his lungs or his bleeding wounds.

* * *

After that nerve-wracking night, kissing is instantly cemented into their relationship. Like so many things between them the habit comes naturally. A kiss good morning, and a kiss goodnight. John would tilt Sherlock's head up from whatever he was currently reading and kiss him goodbye as he left for the clinic. Sherlock would pull John down over his microscope to kiss him hello when he returned from work.

Once, at a crime scene, when Sherlock ordered John to go to the lab while he pursued a lead they kissed, swiftly and almost automatically,  before they went their separate ways. Andersson almost choked on his surprise and then said something that was supposed to come off as a snide comment, but sounded homophobic, which earned him a scolding from Lestrade about the Scotland Yard’s code of conduct.

* * *

Sometimes, when they’re sitting on the couch or are huddled up in bed or leaning on the kitchen counter the kisses grow more intense. Sherlock finds he doesn’t mind the physical intimacy and surprises himself by sometimes instigating it. He rather enjoys the way John's fingers always finds his hair and how he locks his arm around Sherlock's waist.  It always ends the same way though, with John pulling away with a groan and pained expression he foolishly thinks he can hide.

* * *

“Your average time in the shower has increased with 5.4 minutes per week over the last two months.” Sherlock fired the statistic off at John as soon as the man stepped in the door.

“Hi, yourself.” John muttered, as he placed a grocery bag on the floor.

“As I have come to understand it, most people are not satisfied with their only sexual contact being mastur…”

“Oh, my god, Sherlock!”

“..bation.” Sherlock finished where he was stretched out on the sofa, impossibly long legs lightly popped up on the armrest.  

“Well, you are not most people, Sherlock. And since I’m with you now, neither am I.”

Sherlocks fingers fluttered in the air above his head, as if he was sorting through an invisible file-cabinet. “What I’ve found puzzling is that I have offered to engage with you sexually in any way you would like, given it doesn’t require an erection on my part and preferably not any sodomisation, however I could apply myself if required, yet you continue to deny any sexual desires towards me though the evidence is stacked against you.” John’s face went through a lifetime's worth of shocked, angry and embarrassed expressions as Sherlock spoke, blurting out his theories like he was trying to figure out who robbed the art gallery, seemingly oblivious to John's discomfort. “It’s remarkable that you would continue down a path of obvious malaise instead of one that holds nothing but physical benefits for you. I assume it has something to do with sentiment?” He looked over at John for the first time, taking in the man’s beat red face. “Ah, sentiment then. As you know, I am not good with irrational emotions...”

“No. You’re not.” John grinded the words out between his teeth.

“So I asked Molly.”

“You did _WHAT_?”

“I am not beyond knowing my limitations, John, and Molly has experiences with a wide range of irrational emotions.”

John wondered if it would feel strange to hit Sherlock now that they were together. Was hitting an annoying boyfriend worse than hitting an annoying flatmate? He assumed it was and settled for stomping off into the kitchen, taking his anger out on the floorboards.  

“Molly suggested that it has something to do with a breach from what society considers normative sexual practices and ...Aren’t you curious to what theories Molly presented?”

“No, Sherlock, I’m not!” John shouted and started slamming groceries into cabinets.

When he turned around, Sherlock was leaning one hip on the doorframe, sharp contrasts of white shirt against dark pants and the dress robe falling around him like water. He cocked his head like an owl, investigating the doctor.

“You’re angry with me.” he stated.

“Marvelous bloody deduction, Sherlock!” John fumed “What gave it away?”

“Well, the more alarming coloration of your skin, paired by the aggressiveness in your movements and the vein in your forehead that…”

“Rhetorical question, Sherlock!” John couldn’t stop shouting. Sherlock reached out to touch his arm but John instinctively batted his hand away. Sherlock looked at his palm like it might hold a clue, crunching up his eyebrows, trying to make sense of the situation.

“Don’t tell me you don’t understand why I’m mad.” John pressed the words out through clenched teeth. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“No, I know why you’re mad.” Sherlock replied solemnly, voice pitched an octave lower than normal, still paying more attention to his hand than the furious man in front of him “And I deduced that this might be your reaction to my inquiries, but I have few options left at my disposal. I do not understand your hesitation, and I can’t solve what I can’t understand.” He looked up, sharp eyes softer in confusion. “You’re experiencing severe discomfort, I can help relieve it and you won’t let me. When I ask you why you avoid the conversation. If I push, you leave.”

John turned around, bracing himself against the kitchen counter, trying to smother his anger without much success. “I’m not yours to solve, Sherlock.” he huffed.

“I don’t want to solve you, John. I want to help.”  

“I don’t...” John regretted the words as he spoke them, each in turn, and with heavy emphasis “...want you...” Why couldn’t he stop himself, why was he so angry? “...to _help_.”

When he turned around at the last word, Sherlock's face was an unreadable mask, any hint of softness gone from his eyes. He gave John a stiff nod. “If that’s your wish.” and swept out of the room. Moments later, John heard the front door close with unnecessary force. John moved into the landing, unsure of he wanted to follow or not.

“Sherlock, dear? Everything alright?” Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs.

“Just me here, Mrs. Hudson.” He leaned over the railing and caught a glimpse of the land lady peering up at him, waving an apologetic hand.  

“Oh, sorry John. Normally when there are doors slamming he’s the one left behind.”

John opened his mouth to protest, to say that Sherlock was the impossible one, the one who kept… but he found himself unable, because it wasn’t true. Sherlock was trying, and John was  the one rejecting his efforts to understand. He’d left the apartment in a huff at least three times the last month, walking around the block trying to stomp out the feelings of anger he didn’t comprehend.

“Bollocks.”

“No such language under my roof, John!” Mrs. Hudson scolded as John moved passed her, Sherlock's discarded dress robe and out the front door.

* * *

It was pointless, of course, to try and find Sherlock Holmes in London. He could probably keep hidden within the world's most surveillanced city for years on end if he ever got the inclination. Therefore John ‘s erratic search through the few places he could think of Sherlock going - Angelo’s, St. Barts, Brixton, The Westminster Bridge -  was mostly symbolic, and he had no real hope of finding the detective.

Parking himself on a bench, surrounded by tourists marveling at the Parliament and it’s reflection in the disgusting water of the Thames, John dug his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through the one-sided text chain that he’d been keeping up for the better part of two hours.

 

18:10

Come back to Baker St. 

18:22

Where r u? 

18:53

Checked regular spots, going to Brixton. You better not b there. 

19:26

Going back to central.

 

Leaning his head back against the bench, he sent another message, not really expecting a reply but desperately wishing for one.

 

19:31

Sherlock, please answer. 

19:33

I can see that u read.

19:33

The messages.

19:42

Don’t make me call Mytroft. 

19:42

*Mycroft

 

John almost jumped when his phone buzzed.

 

19:43

I was perfectly able to understand to whom you were referring without the clarification. -SH  

19:43

Blond or brunette? - SH

 

19:44

Plz come home.

 

19:44

Based on your previous romantic endeavors I would conclude brunette, but you have always been rather erratic when it comes to women. - SH

19:45

Don’t use textese abbreviations John, they’re despicable. - SH

 

19:46

Whatever you’re doing stop. 

19:46

Just stop.  

 

19:47

I’m attempting to preempt inevitability. Brunette unless you say otherwise. -SH

 

19:47

No.

 

19:48

Blond then. - SH

 

19:49

Got anyone tall dark  & impossibly stubborn? 

19:49

Preferably wearing a belstaff.

 

19:59

Dark hair or complexion? Be more specific John. - SH

19:50

The Belstaff is hardly necessary in these weather conditions. - SH

 

19:51

I’m sorry, Sherlock. 

19:52

I was an idiot.

 

19:53

The past tense is shows a fair bit of overconfidence. - SH

 

 19: 54

Don’t be a wanker when I’m apologizing.

19:55

I’m sorry. 

19:55

Where are u? 

19:55

I’ll come pick u up.

 

Instead of a reply, John received a location pin to his phone, only a couple of blocks from where he was seated. He took a cab even though it was just a 15 minute walk. Upon arriving, he discovered that the address belonged to a small, intimate bar almost exclusively illuminated by red floor lamps. Sherlock was comfortably seated at a high table, an untouched beer in front of him and a brunette woman at his side. They both turned as John approached.

“Ah, and here he is.” Sherlock's voice sounded flat as he gestured towards John with the flawless smile of an award-winning actor.

The woman - late-thirties, well-dressed and more attractive than the women John would approach - cocked her head as she looked him over. “He’s cute. And not at all as short as you said.”

John felt his face heating and hoped the lighting made it invisible. “Look, I don’t know what he’s told you,” he nodded towards Sherlock “But whatever it was…” not knowing how to finish the sentence, he shook his head and switched his attention to the detective “We should go home. Just come home with me.”

Sherlock didn’t move, his regal posture flawless as his eyes, cold even in the warm lighting, settled somewhere over John's right shoulder. “To what end, other than to delay that which is unavoidable? Since you will not accept _my_ offer…” Sherlock gestured towards the woman who helpfully filled in “Rebecca.” “...Rebecca has agreed to..” His diction snapped like a whip. “... _help._ ”

John sighed and rubbed the palm of his hand against his temple.  “That’s very kind of you.” he directed at Rebecca “But it won’t be necessary.”

She shrugged, sipping at her cocktail before easing out of her seat. “Call me if you change your mind, yeah?” she winked as she left for the bar.

Sherlock was still immobile, staring at a point in the middle distance. John climbed the, according to him, unnecessarily high chair that Rebecca had vacated and grabbed the beer that Sherlock had no doubt only ordered for show. He took a swallow and frowned at the bitterness of the beverage. Why, if he was not going to drink it, must Sherlock order the expensive micro-brewery stuff?  He took a moment to collect himself before he spoke.

“Look, I’m sorry.” he said, wrapping both his hands around the bottle to keep them from fidgeting. “It was stupid of me to get angry.”

“I’ve come to expect…”

“Stupidity of me yeah, I get it.” John interrupted “You do that when you’re angry, you know. The insults. Pretending you’re so high above me that you don’t even care.”

“There’s no..”

“Pretence, no, right, cause I’m ordinary and you’re an infallible bloody genius.”

Sherlock snorted “I would not have used the word _infallible_ , it implies a highly unlikely general permanence.”

“Do you want to hear my apology or just push until I sock you?” John snapped and Sherlock had the decency to look slightly chastised. The detective shifted his gaze from introspective to the tabletop and it’s single candle, long fingers reaching out to pick at the melted wax.

“You’re not ordinary.” His voice was pitched so low that John could almost not distinguish it from the soft base in the surrounding music “Not to me.” Was John imagining the watery sheen in the detective's eyes, being rapidly blinked away by long lashes.  He reached out and pulled Sherlock's hand into his. He used the other one to pull at the detectives collar until Sherlock was close enough for a kiss. Mindless of onlookers John pressed their lips together and in response Sherlock squeezed his hand almost painfully hard.

“I’m sorry I didn’t understand how much you’ve been trying.” John brushed a thumb over Sherlock's sharp jawline.

“Why don’t you want to have sex with me, John?” It was probably the fifth time the detective had asked the elusive question, to which he had not been able to deduce an answer.

John shook his head and took another swig of his stolen beer. “Alright, alright.” he took a deep breath, explaining as much to himself as to Sherlock “Thing is, I didn’t think I could be attracted to blokes, right? Never been. Not even a little.” He rotated the bottle in his hand as he spoke. “But… I get… turned on, when we kiss, sometimes.”

Sherlock nodded. “That much has been evident.”

John looked up at him, his sharp face focused and slightly vary. “But you don’t.”

Sherlock pulled his eyebrows together in confusion, scowling at Johns statement like it offended him. “Why would that…” A brief pause where John could see all the pieces snapping into place for the detective. “Oh.”

John looked down at his hands. “Yeah.”

“You don’t want to have sex with me…” Sherlock drew out the sentence, still not certain of the validity of his conclusion “... because I don’t desire sex with you?”

John couldn’t make himself vocally confirm it, so he settled for a sharp nod and another swallow from the bottle.

“You know that’s not…”

“Not really your area, I know. And I know you offered and that you could and all that but you don’t really _want_ to.”

“Intellectually…”

“Sure, intellectually you do. And I know that’s how you work. You’re all brain in a handsome package. And I get mad at myself for not…I don’t know. I don’t know…” John broke himself off, looking around at the small gatherings of people cluttered around tables and lined up at the counter. Rebbecca, now obviously flirting with a blond man in a suit, caught his eye and gave him a discreet thumbs up and a smile. Sherlock followed his gaze. “You assume, as the physical signs of attraction you would have expected aren’t there, neither is the attraction.” The detective reasoned, and John nodded.“Your assumption is based on a fallacy.” he continued matter-of-factly.   

“Maybe. But… I don’t want to force you to do something because you feel you have to, _to keep me_.” John finished, repeating Sherlock's words from months ago, not really brave enough to meet the detective's eyes.

Sherlock bent down over him, tilting the shorter man's face up. “I’m Sherlock Holmes.” he whispered against John's lips “Nobody can _force_ me to do anything.”

John felt a familiar flutter in his chest as Sherlock kissed him, long and deep. When the detective let him go, he almost toppled over in his chair, unable to find his balance without the taller mans body against his. Sherlock frowned at the back of the bar that had caught his attention, turning his profile to John. In the sultry lighting heavy shadows nested in the curve of Sherlock's neck and under the cut of his jawline, deepening his features and hinting at the outline of a defined collarbone underneath the undone top button of his shirt. He’d always had a thing for defined collarbones. Sherlock bent down towards him, eyes still fixed on the other side of the room.  

“John.” His voice was pitched low and sounded like honey on warm toast.

John only managed to make a humming of acknowledgement, as his throat was suddenly very dry.

“That man is a jewel-thief.”

And like that, the moment was gone, and the game was afoot.


	6. The Last First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the one where the story gets it's M-rating.

The change in their relationship was almost six months old and John was slightly terrified at how tangible the sexual tension in the flat started to become.  Only, he wasn’t sure if it was technically considered _tension_ if it was one-sided. He was quite sure he was projecting it onto Sherlock, who seemed interchangeably annoyed, curious and graciously accepting of it depending on his mood and caseload. John, however, was _tense_.

In addition to long showers, he’d started to take brisk walks that would sometimes last hours. Whenever he entered Baker Street he had to mentally brace himself, in case he would open the door and find Sherlock draped across the sofa, long body stretched across the pillows, eyes lost in thought. Or worse, standing in the window, sharp suit cutting a hard silhouette against the fading daylight, observant eyes watching the world below. The worst case scenario though was Sherlock playing his violin. John found he couldn’t stand the instrument anymore. He couldn’t watch the detective's eyes flutter shut, his body lightly swaying with the exquisite notes produced by long fingers firmly pressing on quivering strings as the bow stroked them. John would turn on his heal if he heard music from upstairs, and would usually excuse himself or stare with the intensity of a laser into whatever he was pretending to read if he was already in the flat. He tried to not watch Sherlock, tried not to have his mouth go dry when the man spoke, tried to not so obviously clear his throat whenever he attempted a reply, but he frequently failed.

He knew that Sherlock noticed and made deductions about his suffering. It wouldn’t take the world's greatest and only consulting detective to figure out what was bothering John, and yet Sherlock did nothing. John realized that he was waiting him out, studying him like he would a chemical-filled beaker over a Bunsen burner, waiting for him to produce some sort of reaction. The doctor found Sherlock's rare patience both endearing and infuriating. It lasted for 16 days, and for the first time the detectives resolve that broke first.  

* * *

John grabbed his jacket and opened the door to their flat, only to have Sherlock's hand shoot past his head and slam it shut again.

“No.” the detective - standing worryingly close, bending over John, capturing him between his tall frame and the door -  said with commanding finality.

“Just going for a walk.” John tried his best _“you’re-being-impossible”_ -face but failed miserably, partially due to the blush that crept up his neck at the sight of Sherlock’s unbuttoned collar.

The detective held the display of his phone up to John’s eyes, the screen alight with a number the doctor didn’t recognize.

“Who..?”

“The brunette. Text her. Or anyone. If you will not engage me, John, then make sure to get this…” he gestured to the doctors jeans and John felt his face heat up “...tended to by someone else, because this situation in rapidly becoming unbearable for us both.” Sherlock pressed a couple of buttons in rapid succession and John's phone beeped. “Text her.”

John looked down, avoiding Sherlock's piercing eyes. He licked his lips nervously and then wished he hadn’t. “If I’m with someone else like that,  won’t that…” he had to swallow to attempt to wet his suddenly dry mouth “I don’t know… hurt you?”

“Rationally, no. Emotionally…” Sherlock paused, his eyes turning inward for a second “...I don’t possess enough data to judge.”

“Jesus, Sherlock.”  John leaned back against the door, creating some additional space between himself and the detective. “You’re not a bloody robot. And you don’t need empirical evidence for how you feel about shit.” John was getting angry: He tried to fight it, but anger was so easy, so familiar and uncomplicated. “You just feel it.”

Sherlock tipped his head slightly, coolly regarding John and exposing more of that wonderfully long neck. “How am I supposed to know how I feel about something that hasn’t occurred?”

“Oh for fu… _Imagine it_ , Sherlock. Imagine what it would feel like. That’s what other people do.”    

The detective shook his head slightly, dismissing any notion of normalcy. “It doesn’t matter, John.” he said, voice low.

“Don’t it?” John bit. He didn’t even know why.

Sherlock leaned heavily on his hand against the wood by the side of John's head. “How long will you walk at my side, watch my methods, watch _me_ ,” he bent closer, his words hurried with irritation “and still learn nothing? How can you not _see_ ?” the detective leveled his face with John's, eyes stormy but the intensity of his voice was transcending from anger into something else “Everyone's emotions, including my own, are _irrelevant_. It doesn’t matter to me how anyone feels but you, John.” His name was spoken softly, affectionately and the sound of it draped around the doctor, taking the fight out of him. He bit his lip, shaking his head ever so slightly. Sherlock leaned into his touch as he brought his hand up to stroke the detective's cheek. “That’s dumb, Sherlock.” he said, smiling.  

The detective nodded lightly. “Self-effacing, perhaps. But true nonetheless.”

“I don’t want anyone else.” The words felt strangely raw in his throat.

“Nor are you willing to want me.” Sherlock said softly, drawing out the words.

“I’m getting there… I think. Give me some more time, yeah? To sort out… I don’t know…”

“Your aggressive and persistent hold on heterosexuality?” Sherlock offered helpfully.  

“Something like that.” John slipped a hand around the detective’s waist and stepped into his embrace, fitting himself against the curve of his neck. “We’ll sort it, yeah?”

Sherlock hummed in agreement.

* * *

It took another 11 days before things sorted themselves.      

* * *

They got home late one night, dirty and exhausted after a long man-hunt and an even longer debriefing at the Scotland Yard. Sherlock had magically pulled pieces of evidence against a major crime lord seemingly out of thin air, like a street performer pulling rabbits out of a hat, and Lestrade had forced him to explain each one before he’d agreed to log it.

They stumbled into Baker Street at 2.30 in the morning and, without either if them really thinking about it, they fell into each other's arms. Sherlock shrugged out of his coat and pushed John out of his, while John pressed him up against the door, their lips firmly locked together. They kissed for a long time, only ever briefly breaking contact for small gasps of air. Sherlock traced his hands along John's back, mapping out the muscles and scars from the battlefield. The fabric of his knitted jumper felt rough as tree-bark compared to the smooth warmth of the skin beneath it. John’s hands burned on his abdomen, traveling around his waist to press them closer together.

It was Sherlock who started to push them down the hallway, toppling over a pile of old magazines in the process of getting them both to the bedroom. John fumbled for the doorknob as his lips tracked the outline of Sherlock's collarbone. The detective tilted his head to make it easier for the shorter man to reach the sensitive skin on his neck. The door swung open and they almost toppled over on the floor, before managing to regain their balance. They broke contact twice; once when Sherlock pulled John's jumper over his head, and the second time when John muttered “Bloody things. Used to be a surgeon, for god's sake.” and refocused his attention from Sherlock's neck to undoing the surprisingly difficult buttons of his shirt. Sherlock helped by expertly unfastening them, one handed, in rapid succession while tilting John's head up for another kiss.

“Show-off.” the doctor smiled before accepting Sherlock's lips. He placed both hands on the taller man's shoulders, stroking over the surface of his torso and marveling at the feeling of hard muscles and a flat chest under his palms. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's neck and pushed them back together, skin to skin. His hands found the exit wound of a bullet near John's shoulder and the former-soldier shrugged off his touch when he ran his fingertips over the crater of new skin. Sherlock's apology was smothered by John’s mouth on his.

The bed loomed large next to them, it sat in the middle of the room like a living creature, waiting. John had not made a move to close in on it, and his hands kept on the chaste side of the border of Sherlock's waistline - careful not to offend or go too far. Gently, like a dancer moving across a ballroom floor, Sherlock guided John to the bed, pushing him down on the mess of sheets and pillows. John felt his cock press at the restraint of his pants as Sherlock crawled on top of him, hair mussed into a wild cascade of darkness around his face, white shirt open and framing his body like the matting of a painting. He was impossibly beautiful and John was suddenly aware of how flustered he was and how sweaty his hands felt on Sherlock's bare skin. Sherlock wrapped one long leg around John's, pulling his knees apart slightly before laying down pressed against the doctor's side. They had never gone as far as undressing each other before, and John felt a sting of nervousness mix with his palpable desire. John tentatively let one hand slide over Sherlock's hips, but the detective caught it and tenderly placed it around his neck instead.

“What are we doing?” John's voice sounded rough and thick, like he’d been running.

Sherlock hushed him. “Just tell me if you want to stop.” The detectives deep voice resonated like tremors in his chest and seemed to multiply in John’s. He snaked one arm under John’s neck, bending down to kiss him again. The doctor's lips parted without hesitation. When his vision was obscured by Sherlock’s hair, he felt  the detectives free hand undo his belt. He grabbed Sherlock's wrist as his fingers slid underneath the lining of his jeans. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” Sherlock breathed against John's neck, and John couldn’t remember ever been more turned on than he was by those words. When the long fingers wrapped around his pulsing cock the world fell away and for a moment his entire existence consisted of pleasure, sharp breaths and Sherlock's body pressed against his. John held onto him like a drowning man, digging his fingers into his dark curls, crumpling his shirt in his fist. He buried his face in the nape of the detective's  neck, breathing in the scents that were so distinctly Sherlock - chemicals, expensive soap, the London air that clung to his clothes - as the detective brought him closer to relief with each stroke. The sensation of it all, the mixture of exhaustion, adrenaline and deep seated, almost desperate, longing created a whole that felt like something beyond sexual desire. Johns need was contagious. Somewhere in the back of Sherlock’s mind mind the structural formula of oxytocin and dopamine flashed by like billboards outside a cab window, but his attention was fully focused on the sounds John was making as he touched him. He was almost overwhelmed with how much he enjoyed them, the throbbing, demanding, heat in his hand and the almost painful way that John clinged to him. It was dizzyingly intimate, like emotional vertigo.  

“John.” Sherlock had to fight against John's arms to be able to create enough space between them to actually look at the doctor's face. In the dim light from the sleeping city outside their window Sherlock's eyes looked impossibly bright, almost ethereal, hovering inches from Johns.

“I love you.” Sherlock voice washed over him at the same time as the culmination of his pleasure and he moaned against Sherlock's lips as the detective held him in a kiss as he came.

* * *

It took a while for John to regain his senses. His throat felt raw, his lips swollen and his entire energy reserve spent. Sherlock had relaxed against him, his hand still buried beneath the now wet fabric of John’s pants. John ran his hand over the expensive cotton of the still clothed arm.  He had to clear his voice twice before managing to speak. “Do you want me to…? Should I do… something?”

“No.” Sherlock pressed a lazy kiss to his temple. “This is quite enough.”

John snuggled into the now familiar shape of Sherlock’s chest, gently stroking the detectives exposed waist, tracing the lines of muscle and bone. After a couple of minutes of just breathing together Sherlock stirred and pulled his hand free of John’s jeans.   

“Remember when you said you weren’t sexually attracted to me?” He unceremoniously wiped his hand on the sheet “You’re a terrible liar, John.”

The doctor chuckled “Old dogs, new tricks and all that. Hey.” He reached over and pulled Sherlock back on top of him “I love you too, by the way. Every annoying, amazing and impossible part of you.” He stroked a couple of escaped curls behind Sherlock's ear “I’m sorry it took me so long to see it.”

“You can’t help it, you have a tendency to be blind to the most…”

John silenced him with a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing anything that resembles smut and OH BOY it was hard (no pun intend). I tried to avoid the most obvious pitfalls, I hope that I managed, and that you enjoyed it. 
> 
> I've extended the story to two more chapters, as this one had to be split up in two for length and tone, and I forgot about a silly chapter about grocery-shopping that is mentioned in the story summary, and I assume the reason any of you are here! :)
> 
> Thanks to everyone who've read, and left kudos and comments. <3


	7. Forget everything you know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter also has some light smut in it, so be lightly warned!

They started to settle into a middle ground of sex and intimacy that was comfortable for the both of them.  It wasn’t as easy or self-evident as kissing, and it didn’t always work.

Sometimes, John wouldn’t be able to finish, and Sherlock would recite statistics on the commonality of various erectile dysfunctions for males in his age group as an unwanted and unnecessary form of consolation. Other times Sherlock would get bored and abandon the whole endeavor, leaving John to his own devices. Timing was a big factor. Sherlock would never engage in anything physical when they were on a case, and John wouldn’t allow it when he’s been without one for too long, since the detective tended to suggest something _experimental,_ simply to relieve boredom.  

Sherlock took him into his mouth once and hated it, and John hated too, more so because it turned out that Sherlock was capable to keep a running narration going throughout the whole thing.

Frottage, however was nice for both of them. John had expected rubbing up against someone to feel a little pre-teen and Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was up for the physical aspect, but it turned out they both enjoyed it, most of the time. There were some tricks to it though. Sherlock had to be on top, one way or the other, and perform most of the physical work to keep himself occupied. The few times they had tried him underneath, and John on top, positioned with Sherlock's thigh against his groin, the detective would zone out, or rush out because he realized something relevant to a case.

John settled for having Sherlock between his legs, his cock pressed between their bodies and being gently grinded until he came. With their bodies pressed together, hands free to travel and the familiarity of rocking of hips it was the thing they could do that was most reminiscent of what John had considered “sex” for the duration of his adult life, even though his position was reversed. He quite liked it. Before this John had never really experienced a kind of sex where all he had to do was lie back and enjoy it as much as possible, without any need to perform.      

Sherlock always looked beautiful moving above him, adapting rhythm and pressure to Johns facial expressions, heart rate and occasional moans. When he was close, John would pull Sherlock into his arms, rocking with him and breathe his name. Sherlock quite liked that. He also liked having John gently run his nails across the naked skin of his forearms or back.

“You’re a human-shaped cat.” John whispered one night, smiling as he softly scratched the detectives back, his fingers traveling from shoulder to lower back, accompanied by wordless murmurs of approval “You even purr.”

The detective never got hard during any of their intimate exercises, but John would take care to notice the things Sherlock seemed to enjoy - having his neck kissed, being held, hands in his hair, the gentle scratching - and try to incorporate them during their otherwise rather one-sided sex. Step by step, they learned how to enjoy one another.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson caught them on the couch once, and John almost reenlisted with a request to be assigned overseas as a result. Sherlock had to disconnect the internet to stop him. Mrs. Hudson, however, took it all with an air of sophisticated grace. That evening she cornered John in the hallway before he had time to retreat up the stairs. As he funbled for something to say, failing to even vocalize “good evening”, she patted him affectionately on the arm.

“I’m just so very happy for the two of you.” she smiled, before she let’s him back up to their flat. Something in the genuine joy of her painted lips and observant eyes made John feel a lot better about the whole thing.

“Good.” Sherlock commented flatly from his desk when the doctor told him “Honestly John I don’t understand why her intrusion bothered you so much, considering the age of the building.” Sherlock misread Johns horrified expression as confusion and gestured towards the floor as he resigns himself to explain the obvious “Wooden floorboards, beams separating sections for piping, and then more wood and plaster. Basically nothing to absorb sound.”

“Right.” John straightened himself and stood at involuntary attention. “That’s going to keep me awake for a couple of nights.”

“Brilliant, then you can help me read through these ship logs.”

John stared at the detective and blinked slowly, twice, before relaxing his shoulders and accepting a dusty folder from Sherlock's outstretched hand. “What am I looking for?” he sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter as this was originally a part of the previous chapter that didn't really fit.


	8. Shopping While In A Relationship (with Sherlock Holmes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to do some shopping.

Ever since he moved into Baker Street, John does all of the shopping that doesn’t involve cigarettes or elaborate costumes for even more elaborate disguises. He doesn’t enjoy it, but left to his own devices Sherlock would starve to death without even noticing. If John doesn’t make sure there’s food available for when the detective actually decides to eat, Mrs. Hudson is going to have to be the one to do it and John can’t have her tracking groceries back and forth on his conscience, so he has made it his self-proclaimed duty to do the shopping for all the tenants at 221B.

The process of shopping was always a long and tedious one, made even longer by the challenge of trying to make sense of Mrs. Hudson's neat but unreadable cursive handwriting and worst of all - Sherlock's near-constant texting.

One Wednesday afternoon John  wasn’t even through the produce section before his phone started beeping. Sighing, he tried to find a space between the narrow aisles where he could spend several long minutes replying to texts without standing in the way of other people.

“If shopping, need Ca(ClO)2 - SH.” met him as he opened the text.

“I’m @ Tesco.”

“Which is why I’m asking.”

“Don’t make me google.”

John could imagine Sherlock's sigh at his idiocy as he tapped an answer.

“Calcium hypochlorite.”

“>:-I”

“Bleach.”

_Beep!_

“Really, John.”

_Beep!_

“You’re a doctor.”

“I’m not a chemist.” He misspelled chemist “chemits” in his haste and cursed the mistake.  

“It’s common knowledge.”

“Says the man who doesn't know Madonna.”

“Trivial.”

“Is there milk?” If the bastard was going to text, he could atleast be useful.

“Depends. Milk exists as a substance which most mammals sustains nutrition from. So by definition, milk is.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. Sherlock was obviously not in a helpful mood.

“Do we have milk?”

“No.”

A brief pause then another beep..

“We’re male.”

John actually said “Oh for fucks sake” out loud as he typed, earning himself a stern look from a mother with two small children in tow.  

“FFS” he typed back.

“Franz Ferdinand and Sparks, the scottish music group?”

“Do we have milk, at home, to drink?”

“How should I know?”

“Are you @ home?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“Check if we have milk”

“No.”

“No we don’t or no you won't check?”

“The later.”

“Why not?”

“I’m doing a thing.”

“You’re not, you’re texting too fast to be doing anything important.”

“Did not say it was important.”

“MILK Y/N?1”

“Hold on.”

A minute of silence, and then John's phone beeped again.

“You’re out of milk dear” Came the text from Mrs. Hudson in all caps. She hadn't figured out how to turn it off yet.

“No milk. -SH” came the text from Sherlock a second later.

“Did you just shout for Mrs. Hudson until she came to check for you?”

“There was no point in shouting for you, you’re not home.”

_Beep!_

“Bleach!”

_Beep!_

“Don’t forget.”

_Beep!_

“<3”

John smiled to himself. At-least that last one was new.


	9. The Device

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock get's John a gift (and poisons himself, but that's unrelated) and the doctor has to once again broaden his ideas of what sex can be. This chapter get's a bit explicit, so be warned.

There were, no pun intended, hard times where John missed the simplicity of normative heterosexual practices, not to mention being  _ inside _ someone. He never said anything about it, but of course keeping quiet mattered little when you lived together with the world's only consulting detective. 

Tired after a full day at the clinic and drenched from the rain John returned home one day, kicked off his shoes and froze as he took in the anomaly of a shockingly pink shopping bag sitting on his chair. There was no mistaking what kind of store it came from, with it’s silky ribbons, swirly text and massive cock printed on the side. 

“Sherlock!” he called into the apartment, watching the bag as carefully as he would a viper. “I said no experiments.” 

“Scientific study exercises the brain, broadens the mind and advances us as a species, John. Experiments are the paths we take to reach knowledge, and thus banning them is to effectively to ground us in ignorance.” Sherlock's voice was muffled behind the bathroom door, where John could hear the clinking of glass vials against porselen. “Unrelated to you newfound dislike for the scientific arts: I got you a present.”

“Ass.” John muttered as he carefully stepped to part the several layers of pink, crusty paper. 

“No, a different model. I’m sure it can be exchanged though.” Sherlock strode out of the bathroom, shirtless and with chest and hands stained in shades of jade and turquoise.  He watched John unpack the gift with a raised eyebrow. John pulled a package out of the bag, holding it at arm's length like he was afraid it might bite. 

“Oh, alright. This wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be.” John turned over the fleshlight in his hands, looking over at Sherlock “Noticed, did you?”

“Concluded.” Sherlock replied easily with a shrug.

“Well, it’s nice of you.” he moved to kiss Sherlock, but then abruptly stopped in his tracks., looking the taller man over. “Why are you green?”

“Trying to determine whether or not the concentration of ethyl acetate in this paint mix is poisonous if applied to the skin.” he looked at his trembling hands “I susspect the answer is yes, and that I might need to lay down for a bit.”

John caught him when he swooned like a damsel, and dragged him to the couch, swearing under his breath. “I spend all day treating people, you know.” he said as he took Sherlock's pulse “You know, for money. Maybe I would like to do something relaxing when I get home, yeah?”

“Dull.” Sherlock attempted to wave a hand nonchalantly but found he didn’t have the energy to lift it. 

John  pressed the back of his hand against the detectives clammy forehead “Yeah, you’re running a fever. Brilliant.” He stood up and glared down at the detective “I’ll get the kit then, shall I?”

“And the watch!” Sherlock called after him as he vanished into the apartment “I need you to…”

“Note what time you pass out, yeah.” John shook his head as he pulled out a box labeled “POISONED” from his row of various Sherlock-specialized medkits. “I know the drill.” 

* * *

 

Sherlock's almost successful attempt to murder himself kept John up all night, as the doctor sat watch over the detective, who was delirious with fever. When there was a change in Sherlock's condition the doctor would first note it down, making sure to keep track of the data the detective would want, and then tend to his patient. He justified it with being technically off-duty. 

The next day at the clinic was hell. John fell asleep thrice while trying to update his patients journals. He canceled his last two appointments and left early, returning home in an exhausted haze, basically falling into bed. He woke up after twelve hours of sleep, at in four in the morning. 

“Why didn’t you wake me?” he snarled at Sherlock, who briefly looked up from what seemed like a large plant lexicon.

“Was I supposed to?” he asked flatly. “Usually, when I do, you seem not to appreciate it.”

John took a deep breath and pulled the blanket he’d wrapped around himself tighter over his shoulders. 

“Fair enough.” He exhaled, realizing he didn’t have the energy to drive a discussion about the difference of being woken to read a medical report, compared to being woken out of concern for one’s circatidal rhythm. He shuffled over to Sherlock, leaning his jaw on the man's shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Brushing up on the flora of Northern Ireland.” 

“Crucial stuff.”

“Could be, one day.” Sherlock gave John a quick kiss without taking his eyes of the text. His lips were a bit cold. John pressed two fingers to the detectives pulse. 

“You feel ok?” 

“I’m fine, John.” Sherlock replied almost automatically. “Go back to sleep. It’s early.”

“Can’t now. Slept too long already.” John dropped down into his armchair “Gonna be another long day.”

Sherlock turned to look at him and took on the weary smile, the bloodshot eyes and sluggish movements. He abruptly got out of his seat, grabbed the large book and marched into the bedroom, motioning for John to follow. After forcing the doctor out of his clothes and back to bed, Sherlock crawled down next to him, and dragged the large book into his lap.

“What are you..”

“Hush, John.” Sherlock switched on the flashlight of his phone and started to read, his voice kept low, deep and monotonous. “ _ Ophioglossum vulgatum L. - Adder's-tongue. _ An extraordinary small fern of damp grassy places with a single oval leaf and a spike-like fertile branch which produces the spores. Rare, but also easily overlooked.  _ Hymenophyllum wilsonii Hook. - Wilson's Filmy Fern _ …”

John was fast asleep within minutes. 

* * *

With Johns internal clock completely messed up, and Sherlock getting not one but two murders to solve, the doctor forgot about Sherlock's gift, hidden away as it was in his bedside table, next to his gun.  It was Sherlock who brought it up several weeks later.

“Oh, right.” John put down the Tom Clancy-novel he was stubbornly reading, even though Sherlock had already told him how it would end. “I kinda forgot.”

“You should try it.” Sherlock watched him intently from his side of the bed, his face illuminated by the blue light from his phone. It wasn’t phrased like a question. 

John frowned, pulling his lower lip into his mouth. “I don’t know, Sherlock. Did… did yo…” Sherlock rolled his eyes so forcefully that is served as a verbal interruption and John cut himself off. “What?”

“I didn’t get it for you so that you would stop imposing yourself on me, which is what you’re thinking. And yes,  _ imposing _ would have been your choice of word, not mine. I bought it for you because it is specifically designed to replicate a pleasurable physical experience that you desire.” 

“I’m perfectly happy with…” _ humping your leg like a dog _ John thought “...what we have.”

“John.”

“Right. Don’t lie, I’m terrible at it?”

“Precisely.”

John  sat up against the headboard and looked at Sherlock. “I’m not lying exactly. I’m good with you touching me and the other things we do. Really.” He felt for the detective's hand and held it underneath the sheets  “If that was it, it would be enough. And I’d rather have that with you than some silicone thing alone.”

“Ah.” Sherlock nodded slowly “Per usual, you have been presented with all the pieces but arrived at the wrong conclusion.”

“Your pillow talk could use some work.” John snarked as Sherlock reached over him and pulled the unopened package out of John's bed stand. “You care to enlighten me then?”

Sherlock ripped the paper open. “I have no intention of having you do this alone.” 

While John wasn’t particularly excited at the beginning of the conversation, he was properly aroused at the end of what he would have believed to be a rather cumbersome process of preparing the toy, but since Sherlock was doing it for him - adding the lube, heating the thing, reapplying the holster that provided a vacuum - it turned into a rather enchanting spectacle. Sherlock used the same amount of focus he would for an experiment, and John got hard simply on the realization that this was something that being done  _ for the sole purpose  _ to bring him pleasure. His throat was dry and his breathing elevated when Sherlock had finished. 

“What now?” John asked. 

Sherlock pulled him in for a kiss, his fingers slick from the lube where he ran them down John's chest. “This won’t be a regular occurrence.” Sherlock warned softly before locking the fleshlight between his thighs and laying down on his stomach. 

“Oh.” John whispered breathlessly at the sight of Sherlock's naked backside “You sure…”

“Yes.” 

Almost tentatively, John moved to straddle the back of his thighs, positioning himself over the artificial hole. He ran his hands up Sherlock's lower back, gently massaging at the muscles there.  “You’ll get bored like this.” 

“I’ll suffer it.” Sherlock smiled over his shoulder. “But only if you stop stalling.”

“Right.” John leaned over the detective's body, readying himself  “I’m not sure this will actually...” his voice caught in his throat as he pushed himself into the thigh - oh, so tight, so wet - silicone hole. “God.” he managed in a weak exhale as he fitted his entire cock in the device. 

“Good?” Sherlock murmured, his arms casually tucked underneath his head, profile and curious eyes tuned to watch as much as possible. 

John could only manage a wordless sound of confirmation and braced himself before slowly starting to move his hips. Sherlock managed to hold on to the toy without much trouble. John silently blessed all the running he did. He bent over Sherlock's body as he thrusted himself into the delightful vacuum, falling down to one elbow in order to steady himself. Though positioned a bit lower than he would have been had they been having more conventional sex, he was still pushing up against the curve of Sherlock's ass and the feeling was exhilarating. The sight of the detectives naked body underneath him, accompanied by the headboard lightly beating into the wall and the wet, sucking sound of the toy as he pushed out was enough to make him come. He had to force himself not to, to briefly stop and catch his breath, tensing his muscles and force his body not to let it be over yet. 

“John?” Sherlock murmured as the doctor leaned his forehead against his shoulder blade. 

“Sorry. I just… have to pace myself a little.” He reached for Sherlock's wrist and pulled it down to his side. “I don’t want to finish too fast.”  He gently ran his nails over the sensitive skin on the back of the detectives upper arm. “Tell me if you start to get bored and I’ll speed up, ok?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, enjoying the soft touch. “Take your time, John.” 

He did, thrusting and pausing, moaning with each plunge, but still finished two minutes earlier than Sherlock had estimated based on what he knew of John's encounters with women. He came hard and loud, with one arm wrapped around Sherlock's waist, the other buried in his curls and pressing his hips against the naked body beneath him. Panting, he kissed Sherlock's back after he collapsed against it. The detective waited patiently as John regained enough movability in his limps to roll off him, pulling himself out of the fleshlight in the process. The doctor grabbed it before it toppled over and spilled its content on the sheets. John placed it carefully on the bedside table before rolling into the waiting arms of Sherlock. 

“Thanks.” John murmured against the detective's shoulder, placing light kisses on the exposed skin. “I wish there was something I could do for you.”

“You do plenty for me, John.” Sherlock voice was as gentle as his touch, as he ran his fingers though the doctors damp hair. “More than you know.” He looked down at the spent man half-asleep on his arm, and lowered his voice to an almost inaudible rumble “More than I expected anyone to ever do.” 

John felt the same way, but there was no need to say it out loud. In their bed, comfortably isolated from the rest of the world, nothing in the universe felt as easy and uncomplicated as his relationship with the impossible, annoying and difficult miracle of a man that was Sherlock Holmes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the last chapter I have written for this story, however there are a couple of unfinished scraps that might become something one day. This was initially going to end two chapters ago after all, but here we are.


End file.
